What's Left to Lose
by BlueIris08
Summary: A possible aftermath of Devil's Trap. Written without knowledge of any upcoming episode spoilers.


Title: What's Left to Lose  
Author: BlueIris  
Characters: John, Sam. Genfic—no slash.  
Spoilers: This fic is written in the aftermath of "Devil's Trap," but contains no spoilers for the next season. 'Cause I don't know any.  
Warnings/Notes: Author's prerogative: no further notes on this one. Read at your own risk. Concrit and feedback of all sorts are welcome.

* * *

John had to call Sam's name twice before he jerked himself back from wherever his thoughts had taken him. "It's been four hours," he said without looking at his father. "They said it could be seven or eight."

John hobbled across the waiting area. "Was he conscious before he went in there? Say anything?"

"He was in and out." Sam was holding Dean's amulet, fiddling with the cord. His voice was flat and thick, and tear tracks ran down his unbandaged cheek. "He kept talking about the guy he killed."

John hissed between his teeth. "Did anyone hear him?"

Sam's forehead wrinkled. "Is that really what you're thinking about?" he asked, sounding vaguely puzzled.

"No. No, of course not." John studiously avoided looking down the corridor opposite them. "How are you doing, son?"

"Better than either of you," Sam answered after a beat. Either painkillers or his injuries themselves seemed to be numbing his wits and slowing his responses; still, he was right. His right eye was swollen shut and the bruises visible around his bandages were purpling, but he wasn't on crutches, like John. Or on an operating table.

"Concussion, cerebral edema, broken ribs, internal bleeding, lung damage," Sam recited, staring somewhere off into the distance. "At least his heart's okay," he added after another pause, with weird, bitter laugh.

John eased himself down into a hard plastic chair across from his younger son. "Did he say anything about…what it did?"

Sam shook his head and rubbed at his cheek with the back of his sleeve. John nodded in relief, trying to shove away the echoes of Sam's desperate shouts and Dean's broken voice as he begged for his life. The memories wouldn't budge; he'd probably be reliving them on his deathbed.

He leaned forward and rested his chin on his fists. "God, Sam. Dean's had some close calls—probably closer than you know about—but I've never seen him afraid like that."

"Afraid?" Sam flicked a glance at him. John thought he saw dull anger in his face, but Sam's voice remained flat. "You think he was afraid to die? Jesus, Dad." Sam's gaze wandered off to nothing again. "Dean's not afraid of anything but losing one of us. He was trying to save you from killing him."

John flinched at hearing Sam speak the words aloud. "I thought you said he didn't say anything."

"He didn't." Sam took another swipe at the dampness on his face and went on tiredly. "I didn't know it wasn't you until it showed itself. Dean knew because you weren't mad at him, right?"

John winced again. He'd forgotten about the perceptiveness Sam had honed in his angry adolescence, when he'd always been alert to the smallest slight, always probing for any sign of weakness. "Sam, what it said back there..."

"It was saying that to hurt him. I'm not your favorite." Sam shrugged indifferently. There was nothing of the petulant or sullen teenager left in his voice; that was somehow chilling. "I'm not what you wanted. Never was. I was your child."

Only Sam could piss him off at a time like this, John thought grimly. "What's that supposed to mean? Dean's my son. He's your brother."

"Yeah. But he's not your child. You didn't want children anymore, didn't want to face the fact that you couldn't be a father and do what you did." Sam shrugged again, his voice as expressionless as if John were a stranger. "Dean was exactly what you wanted—he was you. So he was invisible. God, Dad. I never realized what you did to him, you know?"

Sam leaned back against the wall. His voice was beginning to tremble now. "He didn't think you'd go through with it, killing yourself to get that thing. Choosing it over us. Over him. He told me thanks for not doing it."

John didn't answer, but then, Sam probably wasn't expecting him to. "He said to tell you that he loves you," he went on. Tears were forming on his lashes.

John shifted uncomfortably in the rigid seat. "Did he say anything else?"

Sam shook his head. His jaw worked and he took a deep breath. "Just held my hand until they came to take him away. I told him I'd find a cute nurse for his sponge bath, and said I'd see him soon. That was it." He cleared his throat, wiped at his face one more time, and let his hands drop. "Odds are ten to one. Against him," he finished before his voice failed completely.

"Jesus," John breathed as Sam buried his face in his hands, crying softly but openly. The aide who had sent him up there hadn't told him that, hadn't known anything except that his son had been taken into surgery.

"Sammy," he said, his gut twisting, "Dean's a fighter. He can beat those odds."

Sam looked at him, bewildered. Grief, John realized, not drugs, was blunting his normal acuity. "You really don't understand, do you?" Sam asked.

"Understand what, son?" John could hear his own voice shaking.

Sam lowered his head again. "Yeah, he could beat them. If he fought."

An urgent call sounded over the PA system. Sam moaned in anguish and rocked backward, pressing his fist against his mouth. John looked from him toward the sound of feet running down the corridor, awful comprehension sinking in.

"We have one bullet left," Sam choked out. "This time, whatever it takes."

In that moment of numb shock, before the shattering pain struck, John nodded. "Whatever it takes," he agreed.

After all, neither of them had anything left to lose.


End file.
